


The Devil's Playthings

by rosemusiclive



Series: GAU AU [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gods Among Us, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mommy Issues, Multi, gau - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemusiclive/pseuds/rosemusiclive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strife’s role is to collect those who are suddenly ripped from their living bodies, who are launched into limbo with only confusion and despair, unsure of where they’re going. Strife greets them, and takes them to where they need to be.</p><p>And when he shows up, ready to comfort the recently lost soul who is likely viewing the scene of their untimely death, he is often greeted by a familiar face, waiting for him to arrive.</p><p>--</p><p>GAU AU - Strife is the Shepherd of Death and Parvis is the God of Mischief. Time and Chaos collide and the nature of mortality and divinity is questioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Playthings

Strife keeps watch over all. 

His gaze is sweeping and infinite. His stare is not bound by time or virtue. Strife has no judgements, no preference, all are equal and all will be reaped by time and gathered in the embrace of his black wing. No amount of barricade or resistance can erase the ever-watching shadow of mortality.

All except those who exist on the planes of the Gods, alongside him under worship and fear.

As time progresses, Strife notices that the Gods become less and less obvious with their presence. Their actions become vague, and they choose to take mortal forms for longer periods of time. Strife seems to be the only one left who refuses. His relationship with humanity is a painful one. Even the collector of souls can feel pain, sorrow, loss. A friendship with one who is bound by time can only bring grief, and Strife could not bear to lift the dead body of his own friend into the Beyond.

There are a few who also choose not to live amongst the mortals. The human names help a lot, and are often easier than unpronounceable sounds. Trott and Xephos are usually too busy, occupied with jobs of extreme importance. Ross and Alex are bound to the skies, ever watching just as he does. The three Graeae, Spark, Leo and Kogan, reside in the Underworld, keeping the damned souls company. 

He sees the most of these three out of the Gods, as they shift his souls into the Underworld, and are responsible for the strings of life and fate. The Graeae cut the string, Strife collects the soul and brings it back to them. For those who walk on the dark side, anyway. They make small talk as the souls scream in the endless pit of eternal torture beneath them. 

The Graeae are surprisingly welcoming, considering their other-names literally translate to Alarm, Horror and Dread. He supposes that Strife fits in quite nicely alongside them. Against most odds, he forms a friendship with the three sooth-sayers. They seem to be the few he sees the most of.

Apart from the one who waits.

Though Strife collects a lot of souls, he does not collect all of them. Souls who pass through age or natural causes such as illness tend to find their own way. Occasionally they get stuck or lost, and Strife has to help them out a little, but usually they manage to get to where they need to be with no assistance. Strife’s role is to collect those who are suddenly ripped from their living bodies, who are launched into limbo with only confusion and despair, unsure of where they’re going. Strife greets them, and takes them to where they need to be.

And when he shows up, ready to comfort the recently lost soul who is likely viewing the scene of their untimely death, he is often greeted by a familiar face, waiting for him to arrive.

At first, Strife took no notice. Death was so common back then and the population so small that he was not surprised with the recurring presence in the mix. The fact that the presence was a God sparked his interest a little, but Gods walked freely with humans in that time, without concealment or mortal bodies. The humans feared and praised them, amazed by their inhuman features and Godly powers. 

Most Gods choose to have a distinguishable feature that set them apart from humanity, proving their celestial status. For most, it relates to their ability. Alex, guardian and mortal embodiment of the sun, gave himself shining, golden skin. Zoeya, mother of the soil and plant life, chose deer antlers of incredible size. Strife himself selected raven wings and skeleton hands. The humans learned to recognise him quickly.

This God, to Strife’s amusement, chose goat legs and horns. The humans learned to recognise him too; his relationship with Death became as obvious to them as it was to Strife.

Strife picked up on the presence of the God quickly after it became uncommon to see their kind on the human plain. It was a few years after the Pantheon enacted The Law of The Covert, restricting a God’s mortal form to that of a normal human. Other Gods can see the tail or glowing eyes, but it is veiled, hidden from the mortal gaze. Divine features became uncommon, and as such the God with the curling horns and lower body of a ram stuck out even more.

The God was quite nice to look at too. His face was symmetrical and tanned, brushed with a light dusting of hair on his chin. His frame was muscular, yet sleek, and he showed it off as much as appropriate. Black, swooping hair adorned his head in a wreath, parted by the curling horns. The fur on his legs was the same shade of his hair, and sometimes Strife wondered if his human form is wearing any clothes at all.

It was around the development of the country now known as Egypt, sometime in the tenth millennium BC, that Strife decided to make contact. It was a murder case; a man who had been driven insane by jealousy and killed his wife and brother. The God was sitting on the windowsill of the small house when Strife arrived, his tanned skin bronzed by the bowing sunset, his flickering gaze seemingly unfazed by the gory scene before him.

By this stage, Strife was almost expecting his presence, and ignored the tapping of the God’s hooves against the chipped mudbrick wall. After ushering the wailing souls of the wife and brother into his winged embrace, Strife turned to the smirking God.

“The Pantheon would not approve of your meddling.” Strife said. He spoke in a selective manner, his tone sounding authoritative but without judgement. The God’s eyes widened a little, and he laughed, hopping down from the windowsill.

“He speaks!” The God grinned, leering in Strife’s direction. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for that?”

“What?” Strife asked, taken aback by the God’s playful tone.

“I’ve always thought you would have a higher pitch, you know.” The God went on. “But wow, really, you surprised me there. And the accent too!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I considered for a long time that you might be mute or something, but then I figured that you probably have this whole ‘resigned’ thing going on, and you know, I respect that.”

Strife raised an eyebrow at the chatty God, watching as he paced around the room.

“So, I kept my silence. But man, you are impressive. I couldn’t stay away! The way you come in here, all black cloak and huge wings. The mortals love it! Well, I mean, they’re kind of dead. But you can tell.”

“I’m sorry.” Strife said, taking his pause for breath to interrupt. “Who are you?”

“Parvis, God of Mischief and Chaos, big fan.” The God said, grinning and holding out a hand to shake. Strife took a moment to look the God up and down.

“Strife.” He introduced himself, shaking the God’s hand with slight apprehension.

“I know.” Parvis grinned, shaking back rigorously. 

“How…?” Strife gesturing vaguely.

“I've been watching you.” Parvis said, eyes wide. “Observing your work.”

“Right.” 

“I mean, it's not weird or anything. I just really respect the way you handle souls. You're beautiful.”

“Sorry?”

“So I cause a little mischief and wait for you to turn up and do your thing, it's not that weird. I've just never met a God who can handle human souls before.”

“Yeah.” Strife said, rubbing the back of his neck. Most Gods can't touch human souls without destroying them instantly, and Strife was the only one who could actually contain souls and move them across plains of existence.

“It's a thing.” Strife shrugs, then his mind focuses a little. “Did you cause these people's deaths?”

Gods can't directly kill a human, but they can present situations that could kill them. Parvis shook his head, however. 

“Nope.” He said. “I can just sense when stuff like this is going to happen. Murder is a bit over the line for me.”

“Good.” Strife nodded. 

“Hey.” Parvis grinned. “Who knew the grim reaper had a moral compass.”

“Of course.” Strife said, narrowing his eyes. “No innocent deserves an untimely death.”

“Yeah, no, of course.” Parvis quickly agreed, nodding intently. Strife raises an eyebrow at him in suspicion.

“I should go.” Strife said, the souls were starting to become unsettled beneath his wings.

“Go do your thing.” Parvis grinned, gesturing for him to go. 

Strife nodded once, before shifting back into the Goldy plain and descending to the Underworld. Parvis watched him go, his dark eyes sparkling. 

\---

Once they have spoken, Parvis refuses to hold back. He’s there almost every time Strife manifests in the mortal world. Waiting for Strife to show up so he can grin and ask him questions.

Usually, it’s about souls. Questions about their properties. What do they feel like? Look like? Do they talk? Scream? How long do they last in the mortal plain? Minutes? Hours? Days? What happens if they fade before they get where they need to be? Do they wander, lost? Do they disappear altogether?

Strife answers, not bothered by the God’s eager questioning. He would expect to be annoyed, or irritated, but there’s something about Parvis’ hopeful eyes and wide mouth that Strife finds endearing, flattering. It’s nice to actually talk to someone too, other than the Graeae, and Strife finds himself looking forward to seeing those curling horns.

They develop a friendship, of sorts. A companionship? Maybe? Strife doesn’t really know what to call it, so he doesn’t really call it anything. The Graeae ask him about it. Leo uses the three’s shared eye to leer towards him.

“We’ve seen you speaking with another.” He says. Strife raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“He’s quite pretty.” Spark nods, his grin playful. “Don’t you think?”

“He’s inquisitive.” Strife says, but his mind flashes to Parvis’ dark hair and smooth skin. His slashing grin and muscled frame. His sly laugh. Strife’s throat is dry.

The three Graeae laugh.

They see all just as he does, but in a different way. Strife watches the end of stories. Watches as lives end. The Graeae watch over fate and life, cradling experiences and memories in their arms. They see paths walked and paths yet to come. There’s no hiding from them.

\---

It’s a hot day in east Africa, and Strife can almost feel Alex’s laugh beating down on his back. He kneels down next to the dying man, waiting for the Graeae to cut the string so he can collect the human’s soul and deliver it to the Beyond. Parvis leans against a brittle tree, observing Strife carefully.

“So.” Strife says, the lion bite seems to be the slowest death he’s seen in a long time. “Mischief?”

“Sabotage, vandalism, wrongdoing.” Parvis lists. He pauses, before running a finger along the soft ridges of his left horn. 

“Devilry.” He says, softly.

“Why?”

Parvis ducks his head slightly, and grins, before looking up at Strife with a fierce expression and wiggling his fingers in a childlike fashion.

“Idle hands.” He says.

Strife opens his mouth to ask further questions, but Parvis jolts himself off of the tree before he can. Strife’s eyes widen as he watches Parvis faze into the Godly realm, something he has never seen before. Parvis’ Godly form is a tall, shadowy beast. A large cloak of gloom hides the skeletal body underneath, the skull of a ram with huge horns covering his face. Without another word, the God of Mischief slinks into the shadow of the tree and instantly vanishes.

Eyes wide, Strife almost misses the final choke of life from the dying man.

It’s the first time Parvis hasn’t watched him leave.

\---

The Graeae don’t have any answers for him.

They simply chuckle and snicker, answering Strife’s general questions about the Chaos God but refusing any personal details. He quickly gives up trying to hide his interest from them. Spark is probably the most sympathetic about it, giving him a kind smile where Kogan and Leo smirk. Strife finds them annoying, but it’s all in jest, really.

And it’s nice, honestly. This is what having normal friends must be like. Strife quite enjoys all these new feelings. He’s never been bashful before. Never been teased. Never laughed like this. Never shy, curious, timid. 

He has never felt the rise of blood to his cheeks. He has never felt the rise of his heart in his chest.

\---

"Can you bring souls back?" Parvis says one day.

He's reclined on some sort of pleather sofa, the red velvet trim a stark contrast to the rest of this large Roman temple. Strife looks up from the corpse of the sacrifice, a young girl, and raises an eyebrow at him. Parvis is looking away, his deep brown eyes examining something on the ceiling. His bare chest is exposed and gleaming; it's distracting. 

"Back where?" Strife asks, treading lightly. Parvis shrugs. 

The God's posture is relaxed, but his face is drawn and reserved. 

"Just back." Parvis says. His anxious fingers trace tiny circles into the velvet. Strife ponders for a moment. 

"I could try." He shrugs. "But only those who reside in the Underworld. Once they pass through to the Beyond, they cannot return."

"Don't worry." Parvis says, his face contorting into somewhat of a snarl. "This one’s down there."

Strife notices the suddenly hostile atmosphere of the room, and decides not to ask any of his burning questions. He does not want to experience the wrath of the God of Mischief firsthand. Instead, he changes the subject.

“Why do you walk solely in the mortal realm?”

His question surprises Parvis, and he takes a few moments to contemplate it, before giving the same answer that deters Strife from a mortal form.

“Humans are temporary.”

\---

Strife becomes very used to the God of Mischief. His laugh becomes warm rather than taunting. His smile becomes familiar rather than distant. His companionship becomes reassuring. He becomes something Strife can rely on. Something Strife has never felt before. 

It’s unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. Strife is terrified.

\---

One thing Strife likes about Parvis is that he always has questions.

“Do Gods have souls?” He asks, picking at the woven blanket beneath him.

Victorian London is cold in the winter, and Strife can feel the chill in the air. He is not bothered by it; temperatures do not faze Gods. He looks over to where Parvis is lying on the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath the weight when he moves.

“Yes.” He answers. “But they are different.”

“How so?” Parvis asks, and Strife sighs. He is asking all the difficult questions today.

The floor of the loft creaks as Strife moves over to sit beside Parvis’ sprawled out form. Parvis lets go of the blanket to focus his attention on Strife, shifting onto his side so he can look up at the winged God. 

“A human soul is a tiny, precious fragment of divinity, gifted to the first humans by the Gods themselves. Their souls give then creativity, emotion and an understanding of each other. All necessary for survival.

“A God’s soul is similar to the human soul in these aspects, but where the human soul is a piece, a God’s soul is the entire thing.”

“So if a God dies.” Parvis continues. “Where does it’s soul go?”

“It's destroyed.” Strife answers. “A God’s soul is it’s entire being, so when they die, the soul shatters.”

Parvis takes a minute to process the information, turning away from Strife and starting to pick the blanket again. Strife can feel the recently reaped soul starting to become uneasy beneath his wings.

“So a God’s soul cannot be bought back?” Parvis finally asks, and Strife shakes his head.

Parvis nods in sullen understanding, seeming sad for reasons Strife doesn't yet know. Taking the moment to make his leave, Strife stands and says farewell to Parvis, who only nods again in recognition. Strife leaves the God with his head bowed and his eyes closed. 

\---

He is sad for Parvis, and he doesn't know why. It worries him. 

Is this empathy? 

He doesn't like it. 

\---

Time continues on, and Strife seems to see Parvis less and less regularly. 

There comes a day in mid July, where they're both standing in an alleyway in Vegas, smoke thick in the air. The sounds from the casino carry around to them, and Strife can hear faint laughter over the sound of jazz. The roaring 20’s.

“You've taken a mortal body.” Strife says. It's hard for him to not mention it.

Parvis shrugs a little, his eyes vaguely observing the slaughtered woman before him. He takes a drag of the cigarette, before kneeling down next to her.

“Such a shame.” He says, brushing a stray golden lock out of her face with the back of his hand. Strife says nothing. 

Gone are the horns and goat legs. Instead Parvis wears a black suit and white shirt, black loafers to match. His cuff links are golden wings. He loosens his tie with a finger. The night is hot. 

He is tall. Strife expected nothing less. 

“You could come with me.” Parvis says idly, still looking at the woman.

“What?” Strife asks. Only then does Parvis look at him, peering up from the corpse. 

“Stay here, with me.”

There is a moment of silence as Strife processes what he is saying.

“I can't.” He says. “The souls -”

“Fuck the souls.” Parvis interrupts, standing suddenly. “Be selfish for once in your existence, Strife.”

Strife doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't quite understand what Parvis is offering him, what he is trying to say. 

Shaking his head at Strife’s silence, Parvis takes another drag and steps closer still. Strife tilts his head back at the other God’s presence, exposing his neck slightly. They are almost chest to chest now. Parvis breathes out hot smoke onto his collarbone. 

“Stay with me, just for a little while.”

Strife is stunned into silence. He has his duties. He has his role, his place, his job. What he'd been created to do. He will not abandon that. He is not sure if he can. 

But there is something about Parvis that draws Strife in. Some sort of allure. Maybe it's his keen nature and his attentive questioning. Maybe it's the way he’s tracing the line of Strife’s collarbone with his finger, leading it up to the hollow of Strife’s neck. 

Strife remains silent, but his breathing is heavy. 

Parvis pauses, his hand now cupping Strife’s chin. He waits for a moment, before sighing and letting go. He looks up at Strife with anguish in his eyes, and Strife can't help but feel that he's failed somehow. 

“Alex!” A voice calls from the end of the alley, neither of them acknowledge it, but Strife knows that Parvis is leaving now. 

Standing up on his toes a little. Parvis presses a small kiss to the corner of Strife’s mouth. Strife freezes and closes his eyes, his breath faltering slightly at the touch. 

“See you around, Strife.” Parvis says. 

And when Strife opens his eyes, he's gone. 

\---

He spends a lot of time with the Graeae, watching over Parvis. The day's are long, and the years stretch. They don't tease him anymore, choosing to keep quiet and occasionally pat him on the pack instead. Their sympathy is bittersweet. 

Strife waits for Parvis to show up sometimes, even though he knows it is likely in vain. The little bud of hope that blossomed inside him yearns for the sun that danced on it’s leaves, but all it sees is darkness. Parvis isn't waiting anymore. 

The Graeae get sick of his moping, and tell him that Parvis is living a happy, mortal life. He’s met another, named Eva, and they live in New York together. She's gifted, and though she has a mortal body she will not age. She's blonde. 

Strife tuts his tongue at the news, and asks the Graeae to watch Eva’s string closely. He asks them to protect it from harm. 

Parvis is foolish for choosing one with a mortal body. But he his happy fool. 

\---

It's a cool day in November, the ice in Chicago is thick. It gets so cold here. Strife watches Parvis and Eva skate around the lake, laughing and occasionally falling. They're always moving, Strife observes, never stationary for too long. 

Parvis dips his dark head and kisses her, and Strife looks away. 

Under his breath he repeats what Parvis once said to him. 

“Humans are temporary.”

So why has the God of Mischief gone and committed himself to one?

\---

Strife busied himself with his duties. It's almost a century before he sees Parvis again. 

\---

There wasn't much blood, which was surprising. The body was a mangled mess of flesh and bones, but there wasn't much blood. The train station is dimly lit, but Strife can still the the tremble in Parvis’ hands. 

The underground smells of death. 

Strife ushers Eva’s quivering soul into the embrace of his wing, she wails from the last remnants of pain. The death was quick, but not quick enough. 

“You knew this would happen.” Strife says, his tone cold. 

Parvis begins pacing. Two skateboards lie forgotten, one by the edge of the platform, one in several pieces on the tracks, ripped apart by the wheels of the train. 

Strife knows he is being cruel, but he is bitter and cynical. He is angry, and Parvis is sad, and maybe he is angry because Paris is sad. But Parvis gave his heart freely to another who was bound by time, he should have expected that she would take it with her when she passed into the beyond. 

Parvis stops pacing, and leans his head against the tiled wall of the underground, squeezing his eyes shut. Biting his lip, Strife’s cool facade can not help but fade at the sight of the broken God. He steps forward, wings ruffling. 

“Why did you do it?” He asks, his voice cracking slightly from the emotion. 

Parvis says nothing. He stares down at his hands with wide eyes. Strife begins to get a choke in his throat. 

“Why did you do this to yourself?”

Parvis still won't look at him, but he answers in a whisper. 

“Idle hands.” 

Strife covers his mouth. He was bored? He fell in love because he was bored? 

He destroyed his own heart because he was _bored?_

“Parvis.” Strife trails off, voice cracking. He reaches out a hand in attempt at some sort of comfort. 

But Parvis screams into the wall, and starts slamming his fist into it repeatedly. Strife’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, he has never seen such raw emotion from the God. The wall cracks under Parvis’ knuckles, but no damage is done to him. 

Eventually, Strife walks over to Parvis and places a hand on his shoulder. 

“I'm sorry.” He says, his voice softer now.

Parvis’ shoulders sag with the weight of the world. Strife turns him by his shoulders and embraces him. The God’s huge raven wings engulf them both. 

Parvis weeps into Strife’s collarbone and Strife strokes his hair. 

They've come a long way.

\---

Strife often thinks of the nature of souls. What they hold, where they're from, what the point of them is. Wouldn't life be easier if they didn't have emotions. 

He shifts his hand through Parvis’ hair idly, and the God hums in content. The waves lap gently against the shore.

Parvis doesn't ask many questions anymore, he seems to be content with his knowledge. He seems to have accepted something. 

Strife knows that this should quell his worries, but he can sense trouble brewing. 

\---

“I want to bring her back.” 

Strife looks up from the corpse. Another murder; stepfather killing a son that wasn't his. 

“Who?” Strife asks. “Eva?”

“My mother.”

Strife blinks in surprise. Parvis has never mentioned his mother before. The air in the bedroom is stale. Parvis stands in the doorway, casting a shadow from the artificial bathroom light.

“Your mother?”

Parvis nods. 

“She cursed me with his power, branded me the God of Mischief and left me for dead.”

Strife bites his lip, but agrees. Parvis could ask anything of him. 

\---

They find Parvis’ mother in the Underworld, at the end of their journey. 

Strife is unable to cross her over into the human plain, but he can manifest a memory of her old body in the underworld, just for a few minutes. 

She is beautiful. Her skin shines silver. Her hair illuminated gold. A red gash slices open her neck, and there is blood on her lacy dress. Her dark eyes dart around, before resting on Parvis. 

“Alex?” She breathes. Her voice is silk.

Parvis wastes no time. He shifts into his Godly form, lets out a roar of shadows and darkness, and pounces on the woman. 

He rips her soul to shreds. 

After it is done, and she is destroyed forever, he shifts back. He sinks to his knees. 

“Nothing has changed.” He says. “I'm still cursed.”

Strife doesn't know what to say. 

“I'm sorry.” He mumbles, placing a hand on Parvis’ shoulder. 

“It's okay.” The God says quietly. “I'm still cursed, but at least I'm free from her.”

“She was beautiful.” Strife says.

Parvis nods. 

“She looked a bit like you.”

\---

They fall back into their old routine, but nothing is the same. Touches linger, gazes last, Parvis laughs louder and Strife smiles more. 

It's back in Egypt, close to where they met but not exactly the same place, when Parvis puts an arm around Strife’s shoulders. They sit on the edge of a rooftop, both taking a break from the call of Mischeif and Death. Strife looks up at him in question. The sun sets on the horizon. 

“Idle hands.” Parvis says in explanation, tracing small circles into the skin next to Strife’s collarbone with his index finger. 

Strife smiles, and Parvis cups his face. 

“Are the Devil’s playthings.” Strife says, finishing the quote. 

“Just like us, I guess.” Parvis grins. Strife laughs. 

Their lips meet, and the call of chaos subsides for a moment. All is quiet.


End file.
